


Learn Medieval Medicine with Jaskier and Geralt

by CandlemasBells



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Medical History, Medical Procedures, Medieval Medicine, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandlemasBells/pseuds/CandlemasBells
Summary: Geralt lives a dangerous life, and Jaskier is right there alongside him. How do they survive illness and injury in Middle Ages? A series of one-shots dedicated to demonstrating the real-life medical techniques of Medieval Europe. Lots of hurt/comfort, descriptions of medical treatments, and cool history facts.Chapter 1: PrefaceChapter 2: Removing an arrow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: THESE FICS ARE NOT MEDICAL ADVICE OR OPINION. If you have health concerns, speak to a qualified professional. Do not try this at home.

Before we begin, a few notes:

THESE FICS ARE NOT MEDICAL ADVICE OR OPINION. If you have health concerns, speak to a qualified professional. Do not try this at home.

The techniques demonstrated in these stories approximate real medical techniques used in Europe in the Middle Ages.

The treatment a person received in the Middle Ages varied greatly upon the century, their location, and their social status. These stories aren't intended to provide definitive descriptions of medicine in the medieval era. I'll be selecting treatments from a variety of times, places, and schools of thought.

Each story will conclude with a rundown of any important historical information I couldn't include in the narrative, and also just cool facts.

I'm not a medical professional or a historian, just someone with an enthusiasm for medical history. This information is primarily for writers who want to make their medieval healers a touch more historically accurate. I do my best to be thorough and discerning in my research but can make no guarantees of accuracy.

Some of the treatments described in the stories were based in sound medicine. Many were not. The mistakes people made often seem laughable to us in the 21st century. It's more than alright to find the humour in it, but please don't forget: just like Geralt and Jaskier, the real people of the Middle Ages cared deeply for their loved ones. They could do very little to save their lives or ease their suffering, but they did what they could with tenderness and courage in the face of great odds. We owe a great debt to the people of the past for their determination and their search for medical knowledge.

Right, that's out of the way. Enjoy the stories!


	2. Removing an arrow

It's a strange little routine, but it has become their normal.

Soldiers pop out, Geralt draws, Jaskier finds a place to tuck himself away and waits for the noise to stop. For a simple strategy, it's been amazingly successful so far. A few cuts and bruises here and there, but no major injuries for either of them. The first time they'd done it, Jaskier had trembled with terror. Now? Practice has dulled the sensation to something more akin to nervousness. Why would things start to go wrong now?

Why indeed.

When silence falls, Jaskier uncurls himself from his hiding place beneath a cluster of overhanging tree roots and makes his way to the clearing where they'd just finished breaking camp before the ambush. Geralt is facing away from Jaskier as the bard approaches, dislodging his sword from the back of some hapless soldier. Jaskier is about to call out a greeting when the witcher turns toward him.

Jaskier stops dead.

"Um." Jaskier points at Geralt, looking stricken. " _Um._ " His mouth works silently as he gestures at his friend.

"I know," Geralt says.

An arrow is sticking out of Geralt's face, lodged just to the left of his nose, below his eye. Geralt sits down on a rock and beckons Jaskier over.

Jaskier walks toward him as though in a trance, finding his words again as he goes. " _Do_ you know, Geralt? _Do_ you? Because I'm not sure this is the appropriate reaction to an _arrow_ sticking out of your _face_ , how are you not _dead-"_

_"_ Stop talking," Geralt says, tone flat. He grabs Jaskier by the arm and tugs him over so that he's directly in front of him. "Pull it out."

" _What?_ " Jaskier's voice cracks with pure horror.

Geralt locks eyes with him. "Pull it out. You're a bard. Steady hands."

Jaskier shakes his head, holding up his hands protectively. "Geralt, you have _grossly,_ and I would say _deliberately_ misinterpreted my skillset, I'm not-"

"Jaskier!"

Geralt's sharp interruption startles the bard into compliance. He grabs the shaft of the arrow in both hands, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a yelp as he does so.

"Good." Geralt braces himself. "Now pull along the angle it came in."

Jaskier hesitates. "Won't it catch, with the- you know the-?" He takes one hand off the shaft and uses a finger to draw a triangle in the air.

"It's a bodkin arrow, not a broadhead. It's smooth." Geralt closes his eyes. "Pull."

"I- I- I really don't think I should-"

"PULL!"

Once again shocked into action, Jaskier painstakingly pulls the shaft out of Geralt's skull, hissing through his teeth the entire time. Geralt's expression betrays nothing, except for a twitch in his cheek. To Jaskier's horror, the arrow is buried much deeper than he'd thought, maybe five, six inches. Finally, with a squelch Jaskier won't soon forget, it comes free. Both men heave sighs of relief.

"Good work," Geralt grunts. He stands and strides over to Roach.

"Heh," Jaskier chuckles nervously, trying to dissipate the queasy tension in his chest. He holds up the arrow. "That wasn't so-"

He stops. Squints. Touches the end of the shaft. "Uh. Geralt?" His voice is an octave higher than usual.

"What?" Geralt snaps, turning to him. He's in a great deal of pain and has no patience for Jaskier's foolishness.

Jaskier holds up the shaft. At the end, where there should be a metal point, there's nothing but blood-stained poplar.

Geralt stares. There's a long silence.

"Fuck."

Chireadan has been having a quiet day.

He has just squared away the last bottle of his cleansing ointment. It's a new recipe, but he has high hopes for it. He's considering a walk.

And then he hears a familiar voice outside his tent.

"Right, yes, just keep walking, you're doing great, try not to jostle your head-"

Chireadan cocks an ear to listen. The young man with the throat injury. Jaskier.

Oh dear.

Geralt enters first and Chireadan immediately takes in the bleeding facial wound, the strange, stiff posture with which he walks. And then Jaskier appears, all nervous energy and noise. _Like a crocodile and a plover_ , Chireadan thinks as the bard flutters about the witcher.

"Chireadan," Geralt greets him, even-toned as always.

"Chireadan!" Jaskier calls out. "I want to start by saying that he asked me to pull it out and I only agreed to it under duress!"

Chireadan nods to them both and guides Geralt over to a bench, ignoring Jaskier's frantic commentary. "Geralt. It's a pleasure to see you, though it seems we meet under unhappy circumstances."

"Took an arrow to the face," Geralt says, impassive. "Bard pulled the shaft out, but the point's still in there. Lodged in the bone, I think. Can you get it out?"

Chireadan leans forward, palpating lightly around the wound. "How deep?"

"Six inches or so," Jaskier volunteers. "About as far as the blood on this." He holds out the shaft. Chireadan takes it and grabs a pair of calipers from his workbench.

"Can you get it out?" Geralt repeats, more insistently this time. A witcher's capacities for patience and pain are great, but neither are limitless.

"Hmm." Chireadan carefully measures the bloodied portion of the arrow shaft and makes a note in a leather-bound journal. Then he turns to the witcher. "At this depth, attempting surgery could be fatal. But left inside your skull, the point will surely fester and kill you." He looks at Geralt soberly as Jaskier groans. "This is a grave wound. But I can try."

Geralt nods. "Do it."

Chireadan quickly measures and notes the diameter of the arrow shaft, then paces over to a set of shelves, running his fingers lightly along pots and jars until he finds the one he wants. "Lay back," he says, gesturing to a nearby cot. Geralt does as requested. In moments, Chireadan is pouring the contents of the jar into the wound. From the smell, it's clearly honey.

"This should keep the wound from sealing up," he explains, replacing the lid. He sets a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "This procedure is beyond what my current equipment can manage. I have an idea, but I will need to get it smithed."

"You're _making_ a tool?" Jaskier says, incredulous. "Just like that? Just going to pop off to the smith's and have a whole new surgical tool whipped up?"

"Designing a tool, yes." Chireadan isn't entirely paying attention. He's got a leather case open and is putting all sorts of pots, jars, and strips of cloth inside. Apparently satisfied, he snaps the case closed, places the strap over his shoulder, and snatches up his notebook. "Geralt, turn your head to the side so the blood can drain. I will return as soon as I can." And with that, he's gone.

For a moment, no one speaks.

"Well!" Jaskier breaks the silence. "What a... what a character he is, huh?"

"Jaskier?" Geralt murmurs from his prone position.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"Yeah."

The afternoon drags on. Having been forbidden to speak, Jaskier hums. After humming is banned, he paces. After pacing is banned, he tries examining Chireadan's equipment, tapping his foot, and picking at stray pieces of grass before Geralt informs him he is no longer welcome in the tent. He may have used stronger language.

Jaskier waits outside, expending nervous energy by walking laps around the tent, bouncing on the balls of his feet, patting out rhythms against his legs... Anything to keep his mind off his friend's predicament.

After approximately one century, Chireadan returns with some iron contraption wrapped in a scrap of burlap. He looks pleased. Almost excited. They greet each other with nods and Jaskier follows on Chireadan's heels as he ducks under the flap of the tent.

"Jaskier..." Geralt growls a warning, but Chireadan cuts in eagerly before he can berate the bard.

"The smith was successful in forging the device." He holds up the little burlap package and grins. He sets it down on the workbench and pulls the fabric away, then turns to the others, holding the tool up in the light as though it were a priceless gem.

It's a strange, spindly little contrivance. It seems to consist of a split tube with a screw inside the length of it, and some sort of handle at the top. It's no thicker than a finger, but as long as a man's hand. As Chireadan turns the handle, the left and right halves of the tube move apart, then back together as he turns it the other way.

Chireadan stands like he's awaiting admiration. Jaskier and Geralt stared blankly.

The elf deflates slightly and brings the device over so that they can get a closer look. "You see, the central screw will guide the tongs into position inside the socket of the arrowhead, and then they'll expand to grip the inner-"

"Just do it," Geralt says, lying back and closing his eyes.

"It's... not so simple." Chireadan looks away. "We have to widen the wound."

"Widen it?" Jaskier protests. "Surely if it could get in through a hole that small, it can get out the same-"

Chireadan interrupts, shaking his head. "I need room to work. If I'm not careful, I could force the point deeper. As it is, it is dangerously close to many life-sustaining bodily structures. I cannot take risks. Besides, even with the honey I added earlier, the wound has already narrowed."

"So take a knife to it," Geralt replies. "Open it up."

Once again, Chireadan shakes his head. "There are better ways. While I waited for the extractor to be completed, I was busy preparing these." He removes his leather case and sets it on a low table beside Geralt's cot. After unclasping and opening it, he removes a large glass jar of a golden liquid. Within, wooden dowels of various sizes wrapped in linen are being soaked. When Chireadan opens it, there is a scent of honey and roses. He begins pulling out the dowels and laying them out in a row from smallest to largest. He speaks enthusiastically. "We'll use these to stretch the wound. They're made of elderwood to stave off disease, and soaked in rose-honey for healing." He falters, hesitates. "It... will be painful."

Geralt grunts. "I can take it."

Jaskier, who has been chewing the inside of his cheek during this entire conversation, chimes in. "Right then! Won't be in your way. I will leave you to it." He points with both hands and turns on his heel, walking as quickly as possible to the flap of the tent.

"Where are you going?" Chireadan is standing, looking perplexed.

Jaskier freezes. He looks over his shoulder with a brittle smile, dread pooling in his stomach. "...Leaving you to it?"

"Oh no, my friend," Chireadan says, turning back to his elderwood probes. "I'm going to need an extra pair of hands." He smiles. "You have steady hands, don't you? Given your profession."

Jaskier grimaces. He would have to have a talk with these men about what exactly a bard does.

The widening of the wound takes ages. Chireadan takes the narrowest probe, a mere twig, and slides it in ever so slowly, working it gently deeper, careful not to tear skin or flesh. Geralt's jaw tenses as the linen wrapping chafes against the raw wound, but he says nothing.

The healer lets it rest several minutes before requesting that Jaskier stand ready with the next probe. With calm assurance, he smoothly withdraws the first one, hands it to Jaskier, takes the next from the bard's other hand, and begins the insertion process. Jaskier holds the honeyed, bloodied length of elderwood between his thumb and forefinger, wrinkling his nose. At a loss, he looks around and places it on the nearest flat surface, then wipes his fingers on his breeches.

This routine is repeated again, and again, and again, with each probe deepening and widening the injury. Jaskier's hands get progressively messier, and he resigns himself to stickiness for the time being. He lets his focus drift to the strange equipment scattered about Chireadan's tent, trying to distract himself from the mixed smells of blood and honey, the little sounds of pain from Geralt, the whole miserable situation.

A gasp from Chireadan causes Jaskier to snap back to attention. The healer has his hands pulled back from the wound, looking like he's been burned.

"What?" Jaskier asks, voice thin with fear. "Has something gone wrong?"

"He flinched," Chireadan explains, never taking his eyes off his patient. "Geralt, can you hear me?"

"M-hm." Geralt's reply is terse, but he's most definitely responding to Chireadan's question.

Chireadan sighs with relief. "Good. I've nearly reached the arrowhead, but the closer I get, the more dangerous even the slightest movement becomes." He looks to Jaskier, standing tense and still behind him. "You'll have to hold his head."

Jaskier obeys mutely, positioning himself at the head of the cot and gripping Geralt's head between his palms. Chireadan shakes his head.

"Between your knees, please." At Jaskier's confused expression he clarifies, "It's sturdier. I can't have him moving at all."

Gritting his teeth, Jaskier nods. He wriggles his way into a kneeling position on Geralt's pillow, his feet dangling, Geralt's head clamped between his knees. Chireadan looks satisfied. He reaches into the wound carefully and finishes extracting the latest probe.

Geralt is trying not to move, clearly trying. Jaskier doubts an ordinary human could do half as well. Still, takes a great deal of strength for the bard to keep the witcher from flinching as Chireadan inserts the last few probes. Geralt's face is pale and sweat has beaded across his brow. Jaskier wipes it away with his sleeves, hoping to ease his friend a little.

"There." Jaskier looks up at Chireadan, who sets aside the final piece of elderwood and picks up the iron extraction device. He positions it over the injury, which is indeed clearly larger now, then looks over to his make-do surgical assistant. "Keep him still." Jaskier tightens his hold and Chireadan slips the extractor into the wound.

The witcher's hands clench and his entire body tenses with pain as the tongs seek their target. It is all he can do not to pull away. Jaskier bites his tongue and tries to think of beautiful things, bouquets and quartets and summer evenings. Chireadan works with a single-minded focus, seemingly oblivious to the agony of the men beside him.

Suddenly, his hand stills. He moves his left to the handle on top of his device and turns it, degree by miniscule degree. Again he stops. When he speaks, his voice is softer but no less steady. "Hold him."

With tiny movements, he wiggles the extractor back and forth, deftly working the arrowhead from the bone.

The instant the point shifts, Geralt's eyes widen and his breathing accelerates, tiny noises escaping his throat. Jaskier strokes his brow with a bloodstained thumb, feeling powerless to help his friend, wishing he would just pass out.

And then Chireadan is sliding the device back out, slowly but smoothly, and then he's holding the arrowhead aloft, and Geralt is panting, and Jaskier is wiping away tears.

Chireadan doesn't stop. Working quickly, he sets the extractor aside and picks up a syringe. The smell of strong white wine pervades the tent as he rinse the wound. Geralt closes his eyes, obviously still in pain, but his face no longer bears his earlier look of acute misery.

"See?" Jaskier says with a shaky smile. "Nothing to it. Don't know what you were all upset about."

Despite himself, Geralt can't help but laugh. Not long, not loudly. But it's enough for Jaskier, who pats his cheek good-naturedly.

"Don't push it," Geralt mutters, but there's no venom in his tone. He reaches up and claps Jaskier's shoulder.

Chireadan packs the wound again with a bandage soaked in his new cleansing ointment. It stings, but the healer promises it will prevent illness. Geralt chooses not to argue.

They rest in Chireadan's tent for the night. In the morning, he sends them away with a bundle of supplies: cleansing ointment, some salve of resin and gum, a greasy herbal unguent, and linen bandages for packing the wound.

"Every second day, replace the bandage, but don't insert it quite so deep," Chireadan instructs Jaskier, pressing a long list of directions into his palm. "Don't forget to soak the linen in the cleansing ointment first. Apply the healing salve once the wound is too shallow for the bandages. Keep his neck warm, and rub it with the nerve unguent. If he has a spasm, come back to me right away." Jaskier stares at him blankly. Chireadan smiles. "It's all written down and labelled."

The first couple of days, there's an awkwardness between the bard and the witcher. The former is sheepish about his reaction, and fearful of smothering his companion. The witcher is standoffish and too independent for his own good. But a silent agreement is reached: Geralt will allow Jaskier to perform his ministrations, and they will not talk about it.

Whether by Chireadan's skill, Jaskier's nursing, divine intervention, or dumb luck, the wound heals without illness in ten days time. The scar isn't pretty. Jaskier describes it as striking, and Geralt rolls his eyes. For what it's worth, the bard was being sincere.

Two weeks later, when Geralt returns to camp with a brace of rabbits, Jaskier cleans them. Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were squeamish."

Jaskier stares for a long moment in silence. "Well," he sighs, turning back to his work. "It makes sense for me to do it." He shrugs. "Steady hands."

Geralt fixes him with an appraising look. Jaskier finds himself unable to restrain a mischievous grin, and then there's no stopping the laughter that bubbles out of him. Geralt smacks the back of his head as he walks by, and that only makes him laugh harder.

And if you listen carefully then maybe, just maybe, you might hear another laugh too.

* * *

Believe it or not, this story is based on an actual surgery performed in 1403, during the Late Medieval Period. Amazingly, the history is even more dramatic than Geralt's adventure here!

On July 21st, 1403, Prince Henry, the sixteen-year-old heir to the throne of England, was struck in the face with a bodkin arrow, sustaining the same injury described in the story. Incredibly, he continued fighting for hours afterwards, allegedly leading the charge that won the day! Following the battle, he was taken away for medical attention, but when doctors removed the arrow shaft, the point remained lodged in his skull. (I've seen conflicting reports on whether the shaft broke off or was simply pulled out. I used the latter in the story. It's plausible; arrow heads were often held on with beeswax, and could easily come loose and slip off.)

At this point, with his eldest son's life on the line and the doctors at a loss, King Henry IV called for the release of John Bradmore, the former royal surgeon, who was in prison for counterfeiting coins. Fortunately for him, the surgery was a success and he remained in the employ of the royal household until his death in 1412.

The surgery Chireadan performs on Geralt follows Bradmore's procedure pretty closely, with some embellishment for the sake of narrative (there's no record of a squeamish surgical assistant, for example). I also cut the recovery time in half to account for Geralt's witcher physiology. It took Prince Henry twenty days to recover; amazingly, he survived without infection or nerve damage, though he was left with a nasty scar.

Another note on accuracy: the exact nature of Bradmore's device is disputed. His description isn't entirely clear and the scribbly little illustration he provides isn't terribly helpful either. One theory is that it worked as Chireadan's does in the story: the tongs expanded inside the arrowhead to hold it tight while the surgeon extracted it. Another theory is that the central screw operated like a corkscrew, penetrating the arrowhead so it could be removed. Either way, it did its job very well, at least in this instance. Interestingly, Bradmore was a metalworker and would have had the skills to craft the device himself, though it is not recorded whether or not he did.

Recipes in this story (I must repeat, for writing, NOT for making):

Mundificative (cleansing) ointment: Take white breadcrumbs and boil in good water and strain through a cloth. Then take enough barley flour and honey and boil all together over a gentle fire until thick, and afterwards add sufficient turpentine resin.

Healing salve (in real life, dark ointment): Melt together lard, olive oil, beeswax, gum, rosin, pitch, and turpentine.

Nerve unguent: Boil together butter, wax, resins, and an herb mixture (accounts vary of which herbs, up to thirty are listed).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This level of medical success was not typical in the Middle Ages, as we'll soon see. Let me know in the comments what you'd like to read about next: burns, wound care, or fevers. Don't know when I'll get it written, but I'll try!


End file.
